Like a Phoenix from the Ashes
I feel the bolter kick backwards into my hands.
The whisper-crack sound follows the feeling almost immediately, and I see the hi-ex shell hit the snarling World Eater in the throat, punching through the lightly armored gorget and pitching him back into the dust of the hill. His dirty white gauntlets are stained red as they try to stem the flow of blood, and I see the life leave him even as I am locating a new target. He was not the first brother I have murdered, and he will certainly not be the last.
The bolter kicks again. Once. Twice. Three times. Two more astartes die by my hand. One, bare-headed, stumbles and looks at me as he falls, hate etched in his face. I will never forget it, nor the faces of the countless other warriors that I have slain this day.
I stand amongst the dead bodies of various Legionaries, but more importantly, I stand amongst my fallen brothers, and amongst all the progress and hope of mankind. I stand witnessing the death of a glorious era, and the birth of a darker, more violent one, full of unending war and suffering.
My brethren- those that, like me, defied the insanity of our kin- yell into my comm-bead, reporting casualties and status, adding new targets to the multitudes of hostiles in front of me. My heads-up display lights up red identifiers in response to their yells, and flashes indicators of damage taken by my armor. I see runes of my fellow warriors become dark and cold, a detached part of my mind telling me that I will never see these comrades again.
Jets scream over my head as fighters dogfight in the heavens above. Below them, tanks fire shells and energy blasts that tear gaping wounds in the swirling morass of astartes, and in turn are blown up by missiles and heavy weapons. Battle Titans stride the world, dueling, looking more like gods than war machines. They devastate each other, reflecting the seething hatred of the astartes underfoot.
My ammo counter drops to 0. Ducking below the rocky outcropping I am behind, I push the catch, and pick out a fresh magazine from my hip. The one I choose has AP stenciled on the side. I load it into the well and rack the slide. The ammo count resets on my HUD. I rise up just in time to see a black Thunderhawk bearing the sigil of the XIXth corkscrew into a formation of Word Bearers.
I frown. A bad death, but helpful, in a way.
To my right, a group of Iron Hands take advantage of the impact to cut down a swathe of disoriented Word Bearers. I take satisfaction from seeing the squad leader beheading their Chaplain. To my left, a squad of XVIII Legion surround a World Eaters Predator. Their meltas fire bright beams, cutting through the tank and rendering it into so much scrap metal.
The distraction gives an opportunistic foe a chance to attack me in close combat. I turn, and barely have time to pump a round into his torso, shredding it utterly. He still moves, and so I draw my power sword from its sheath at my hip, and ram the blade into his neck. Blood soon stains the dirt below him.
My chronometer indicates that it is the 3rd hour of the 2nd day. It feels like an eternity since the beginning of the action. Reports begin to stream in of a company force of Emperor’s Children heading my way, even as the first Cataphractii, bedecked in violet armor chased with gold breaks through the Iron Hands ahead. The odds of my survival decrease rapidly. I only have a few magazines left, and like many of my brothers, will soon be reduced to hand-to-hand combat.
Pausing momentarily, I bring my scope towards my eye, sighting down the crosshairs, and whisper a phrase that has found new meaning since the start of this wretched fight.
“Iron Within. Iron Without.”
-Vek’saron Khyze, “The Iron Scorpion”, Former Vigilator and Warsmith of the 52nd Grand Battalion.
Welcome to the second telling of the tale of the 52nd Grand Battalion; The Wayward Sons of Perturabo, true sons of Terra.
Some of you may recognize the models you'll see in this thread- specifically, those of you who were/are on Warseer in the Imperium Project Logs. Those of you that don't- welcome to my pride and joy- the 52nd Grand Battalion of the IVth Legion Astartes.
The Wayward Sons of the IVth were originally designed to reflect the nature of the mid-heresy era, meant to represent an army of the shattered legions at around 2000 points, their first thread on Warseer being designed as a quick log narrated from the perspective of a non-astartes attached to the survivors' fleet. However, the army quickly grew from humble beginnings and took on a life of its own- inspiring change in the force that I hadn't even thought of, forcing me to kill off certain characters who I had no desire to see gone. It also prompted me to consider their pre-heresy campaigns and actions, which I soon realized would define the 52nd Grand Battalion as much as my stories would- In short, they evolved from a simple project into a complex beast of an army.
I struggled to find a way to retroactively follow characters and advance the storyline with their first log, and ultimately lost my drive to write about them as time wore on. However, with the crash at Warseer, I realized I may have lost their stories forever, and decided to rebase myself to B@C after participating in L&TII and posting some of my models on various sub forums, realizing that the 30k community here was strong and vibrant.
Now, here I am, writing my first plog at Bolter and Chainsword. Hopefully, this log will reignite my passion to tell the stories of my resin soldiers, and help me wok on them and expand the force to be one I would have never expected. Already, the original goal of 2000 points was shattered, with my Battalion sitting at ~3500 points, sans allies. Maybe in a year's time, It'll be twice that number.
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy, and let me know what you think of my IVth Legionnaires.
Edited by Phatsquirre1, 14 August 2017 - 02:06 PM.